“Sting didn’t say shit.” I tighten my grip until I feel the tendons strain.
He tries one more tug. I don’t release. Instead, I stepin, force him back until his shoulders hit the rusted metal of one of those stupid mall kiosks, the kind where the salespeople chase after you, trying to sell shit. The crash echoes. Heads turn.
I lean close. Close enough he can smell the threat on me.
“Touch her again,” I murmur, “and I won’t bother with reassignment. I’ll handle it personally. And you won’t walk away.”
His eyes dart to Vi, then back to me. He sees it, the certainty. The promise. He nods once. Jerky.
I let go.
He stumbles sideways, cradling his arm, then turns and disappears into the crowd without another word. The corridor exhales. Conversations restart. Eyes slide away.
But the shift is permanent.
They all saw it.
Vi stands exactly where I left her, wrist still red from his grip, breathing shallow. She doesn’t look scared. She looks furious. And something else, something that makes my pulse kick harder.
I close the distance between us in two steps. My hand finds her waist, firm, possessive, right there in front of everyone still watching from the corners. I pull her against my side, close enough that her hip presses to my thigh, her shoulder brushes my chest.
She tenses but doesn’t pull away. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says under her breath.
“Yes,” I reply, mouth near her ear so only she hears. “I did.”
Her chin lifts. “I can handle myself.”
“I know.” I stroke once along her hipbone through the denim, slow, deliberate. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”
She exhales sharply through her nose. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
I sigh. This again. “You signed up for the Favor,” I say. “You lost. This is what’s left.”
Her eyes flash, anger, grief, something raw that makes my chest tighten. She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it again. Looks around at the faces still pretending not to watch.
“They’re all staring,” she mutters.
“Let them.” I don’t loosen my hold. If anything, I pull her closer. “Now they know.”
She swallows. “Know what?”
I tilt my head so my lips brush her temple. “That you’re not available. That anyone who wants a piece of you has to go through me and the guys first.”
Her body stays rigid for another heartbeat. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she leans into me. Just enough that I feel the heat of her against my side. Just enough that the last of the tension bleeds out of the corridor.
The message is sent. She’s claimed. And the Rot is already rewriting the rules around her.
I don’t let go of her waist as we start walking again. My hand stays there—warm, steady, unmistakable.
She doesn’t ask me to remove it.
Not that I would, anyway.
46
ARMEN
We’re halfwayto the old food court when I see them.
